A Time to Run
by Soquilii
Summary: Based on The Tall Man, Episode Full Payment 1961: In the past, Billy Bonney has been a cattle rustler and made many enemies. Now, thanks to his mentor, Pat Garrett, Billy is trying the straight path. Still, there are those still intent on killing him.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Pat's Advice

William H. Bonney - locally known as Billy the Kid - rode jauntily into Lincoln, New Mexico. His boss, ranch owner John Tundall had charged him with the sale of a small herd of cattle this Friday afternoon. Once the money had been deposited in the bank, Billy was to take the rest of the weekend off.

Billy completed his tasks as ordered; his time now was his own. First he'd say hello to his friend then he'd stop in the cantina for a beer. He jubilantly dismounted and tied his palomino in front of the sheriff's office.

Sheriff Pat Garrett was seated at his desk, going over some wanted posters, ads and letters.

'Whaddaya say, Patrick?' Billy queried in his usual cheerful style. Pat looked over his shoulder at his young friend and frowned.

'Hello, Billy. I'm afraid you won't be so chipper when I tell you what's in the post here,' he said.

'What?' asked Billy, concerned. 'I ain't caused no trouble lately, Patrick.'

'Pull up a chair.'

Billy complied. He sat, habitually curling his hat brim with both hands as was his wont. 'What, uh…what's this about, Patrick?'

'Do you remember Jim Rogers?'

Billy's blank stare gave him the answer.

'Jim rode with Jack Barron…remember? Quantrill's Raiders? He had an issue with you about rustling cattle some years back; in fact, he said you killed one of his ranch hands. Remember now?'

Billy nodded, slowly. 'Jack Barron, uh…he's dead. What does Jim Rogers want with me?'

'To kill you, Billy. Quantrill's…they never really disbanded. Those men never give up. Three of 'em. The sheriff in San Patricio wrote me - just as a professional courtesy - to expect them. He doesn't know about you…but I do. Jim and Jack were pretty close; Jim wants to finish what Jack started. He wants to kill you, Billy.'

Billy wriggled in his chair, got up, walked a few paces, walked back and sat back down in the chair. Here he was, trying to follow the right path, had a job, a friend, a girlfriend, and a bed to call his own in the bunkhouse on the ranch, and somebody could still stalk and kill him. For water under the bridge. Old news. Yesterday's bread! Why couldn't people just live and let live? He stood up and began pacing, saying as much to Pat Garrett.

'A couple of mistakes, years back, I try to go straight, get a job, and I can still get shot just livin' day to day?!'

'Sometimes that's just the way of it, Billy.'

'What should I do? Can you tell me that? Huh?'

'Get out of town.'

'What, you expect me to run from 'em, Patrick?'

'Seems like a good idea. I'd rather you run…'

Billy shot him a hard look.

'…than get killed. I can't spare the time and I don't have the men to watch you twenty-four hours a day.'

Billy thought it over. 'If I run…for more than three days…I lose my job.'

Pat stood up and placed his hand on his young friend's shoulder. 'I'll tell Tundall what's happened and that you left on my suggestion and that you'll be back. You know the man is your friend as much as I am, Billy. You won't lose your job.'

Billy's throat worked as he nodded gratefully. 'You say they're coming from San Patricio?'

Pat nodded. 'The sheriff saw them passing through.'

'San Patricio,' Billy mumbled to himself, 'that's east. I'll go south.'

'Billy, that's Mescalero territory. You know that. Might be more dangerous than meeting up with the Quantrill gang.'

'I'll take my chances.'

Billy started for the door. 'Reckon how long 'til I can come back?'

Pat thought a moment. 'Meet me at the old ruins a week from today. I'll tell you if it's safe to come back to town. That'll mean they've given up and left. If it'll help, I'm willing to tell them you've moved on, and…I don't know where,' Pat smiled.

'Why won't that work now? Just tell 'em I've moved on?'

'Because someone's seen you here recently and apparently tipped 'em off on your whereabouts. Maybe while you're gone I can straighten that out. Remember the old ruins?'

Billy nodded; he knew the old ruins well. They were the charred remains of the old Oberon homestead that still stood on the banks of the river. Nearby were two graves. Teresa Oberon had been dead two years now; Teresa, Pat's wife, killed on her wedding day; buried next to her father at the homestead. Teresa Garrett. They had probably been married all of fifteen minutes. Billy wondered if his friend and mentor had ever really gotten over the loss of his wife.

'One week from today.' Billy shook his friend's hand. 'Thanks, Patrick.'

'They're still a few days out, but get going. Take my pack mule; you'll need it. And be careful.'

'Patrick…I don't like running from trouble.'

'Frankly, Billy, I think it's a skill you should master. You might live longer.'

Billy was grinning when he went out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Billy heeded _a few_ of Pat's warnings; as usual, not all of them. That would be too much like compliance, and the boy simply wasn't built that way. He didn't take Pat's pack mule and he couldn't resist stopping in to see Maria at the cantina, have a beer or two, and tell her she wouldn't be seeing him for a while.

'Por que, mi _Billito_? _Por que_?'

'Ah,' he said, tilting his head back and pulling her closer to him, 'there's somethin' I gotta do, no sense talkin' about it 'til I get it done. Don't you worry about it. I'll be back as soon as I can.' He took a deep breath and repeated the promise. 'I'll be back, and we'll make up for lost time. That's a promise. That's a solemn promise.'

He looked down at her. Holding her chin tenderly in his fingers, he kissed her.

'Te quiero, Maria.'

'Siempre te quiero, Billito!'

He turned and headed out the cantina door.

Maria had known Billy a long time. She felt something was wrong; felt that he shouldn't go. No sense arguing with him or asking him not to go; Billy did as he pleased. All she could do was cross herself and whisper to his retreating back: 'Caminar con Dios, my Billito! Vaya con Dios!'

That night, before she went to bed, she prayed a rosary for Billy to ensure his safe return.

Billy left town in the dead of night, saddlebags bulging with food and ammunition.

-oOo-

In the northern foothills of the Sacramento mountain range were limestone caverns of all sizes; some merely a covered shelf in a rockface, some deep enough to build a town in. Billy had used one or another of the smaller ones on several occasions. They afforded shelter and relief from the heat; some of the deeper ones even had water sources. The trick was not to get lost or trapped!

The one he sought would make a passable hideout. The Quantrill gang, no doubt bearing down on Lincoln at that very moment, was of little consequence now. However, the Apaches might not take kindly to him using their land for any reason, and there were always renegade bands across the border making trouble He'd run into that before. He'd have to stay on the alert; not show himself any more than necessary; build small campfires. Luckily, spring was the right season. Not too cold.

He didn't fear hunger, either, for in addition to the canned beans, coffee and jerky in his saddlebags as well as oats for his beloved palomino, there were rabbits, squirrels and birds as well as bigger game such as bear or elk. It seemed he was set; all he had to do was wait it out.

Before, the townspeople had raised a ruckus about coming together to help the sheriff stave off the Quantrill gang. This time, he figured it was just as well he took himself out of the equation. Make it easier for Patrick.

He set up a campsite inside a wallcut in a small canyon with a good overhang and a recessed area that might be called a room if he stretched his imagination. The wallcut was big enough so his palomino could be tied within at night and allowed to graze outside during the day.

As for the recess, a small trickle of water ran along the back of it, most likely runoff from rivers that snaked through this area. He dug with his knife until he had a small basin to catch and hold some of the runoff and drained it away so it wouldn't flood his new home. It was the coldest and sweetest water he had ever tasted.


	3. Chapter 3

Back in Lincoln, Jim Rogers and his Quantrill raiders were making life hell for Pat Garrett. The townspeople refused to stand behind him like they had done once before; one showdown had been enough. They went about their business, ignoring the situation until it escalated. The original gang of three armed men had been increased to seven during their ride to Lincoln. They bore down on Lincoln in a destructive, systematic search for Billy the Kid. Storeowners, the blacksmith, the cantina and the small café suffered loss of property and harassment; even the adobe church was searched and threatened with the torch if Billy wasn't turned over to them.

Pat Garrett stood in the street with a shotgun and a loaded ammunition belt, ready to do battle for his town. That morning, he'd planned and put into effect a ruse that he hoped might relieve the situation but it was going to take time.

The first person to stand with him was the blacksmith.

'Thanks, Harry,' said Pat.

'Guess I can't let you do it alone, Sheriff. There's more of them than we figured.'

'If we can hold them off until the telegraph office sends me a message I think they'll leave.'

One by one the townspeople, shamefaced, came to stand with their sheriff while the gang bore down on them.

'All you gotta do is give us Bonney, Sheriff, and we'll be gone. Save yourself a town. We've been told he was here. Living here; working here. We're gonna hit the homesteads next. Just tell us where he's hiding,' Jim Rogers demanded.

'Who told you Bonney was here?'

Jim pointed with his rifle at Clyde Baker, one of Tundall's ranch hands.

'Maybe Clyde's mistaken. Ever think of that? Besides, why are you all so hell-bent on killing Bonney? Is there more to it than just one dead cattle rustler?'

Before Jim could answer, Frank, the telegraph operator, burst from his small office waving a message. 'Sheriff! Telegraph message!'

Pat took the message, read it swiftly, and walked up to Jim Rogers sitting menacingly on his horse.

'There's your answer.'

Jim snatched the paper out of the sheriff's hand and read it. 'Damn!' he exclaimed.

'What is it, Jim?' one of the gang demanded to know.

'He's headed for Mexico. This here is a message to all county sheriffs to be on the lookout for Billy the Kid, last seen nearing the border to Mexico. Shoot on sight.'

Jim crumpled the message into a ball and threw it in Pat's direction.

'I'll be damned if I follow that little weasel all the way to Mexico. By now he's lying in the desert somewhere on his way to being a skeleton.'

'There's that possibility,' said Pat with a straight face. 'You got what you came for - at least you know his whereabouts. It's not here. Why don't you all go on and leave us in peace?'

'Huh. Fun while it lasted anyway, huh, fellas?'

His gang circled their horses and shot their guns in the air.

'Guess we'll leave you fine folks to clean up. No sense staying around here!'

The gang raised a cloud of dust as they rode out of town.

-oOo-

Pat Garrett breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to his townspeople and thanked them.

After they dispersed, the telegraph operator winked at Pat. 'Good idea you had, sending that telegram to El Paso,' he said. 'It worked.'

'It's what's called a _preemptive strike_. Sometimes you have to play by a different set of rules. Thanks for the help.' Pat slapped his hand on his companion's shoulder and set off to saddle his horse. He was due to meet Billy in the morning, and he was carrying good news for his friend.

-oOo-

By Billy's calculations, tomorrow was the day he was to rendezvous with Pat Garrett at the old ruins. This past week had gone by like lightning. Billy only hoped the gang had left Lincoln in peace by now.

At any rate, his supply of food would need replenishing; if he had to go back into hiding Pat could bring him some supplies. For now, he had to bag a rabbit or two if he was going to eat today. He set out early in the morning and had succeeded in shooting two fat rabbits before noon. He tied them to his saddle horn and started back to the cave, riding the crest of a ridge.

He was almost there when two shots rang out, then the whiz of an arrow pierced the air. All three weapons found their mark. Three renegade Apaches were on Billy before he hit the ground. As they kicked and punched their helpless captive, three more shots were fired in their direction from below the ridge. Just before he passed out, Billy figured the whole tribe was after him. The blows stopped as all three renegades dropped dead. Billy was senseless by the time his savior stood over him, surveying the damage. The lone figure stripped the bodies of the renegades, caught Billy's horse and one of the trio's horses, packed everything on one horse and somehow loaded Billy's limp form over his palomino's back. They started back to the cave together. The bodies of the Indians would be hidden with rocks and brush later. What they didn't need now was a signpost of their whereabouts - either of them.

It was dark before Billy came to, groaning. He'd been shot through his right shoulder and right arm, and an arrow shaft still protruded from his thigh. He found himself half nude, lying on a thick bed of pine branches. His arm and shoulder, wrapped in what looked like his shirt, stung like fire. A gourd of water lay within reach. Wildly thirsty, he reached for it but fell back weakly. He tried again without success and was trying a third time when his rescuer appeared in the opening to the recessed room. In agony, he thought he must be dreaming as the light from the small flickering fire lit her features: young, slender, dark-skinned, her braided hair coiled on the back of her head, clad in a deerskin dress and boots. A _girl_ had rescued him?


End file.
